


And the end is always near

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [12]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: From the center of the black hole.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713
Kudos: 2





	And the end is always near

Vinnie woke from the dream, the same dream, the one he didn't understand but couldn't shake: he was there on the cross, next to Christ, one of the thieves, and he knew it meant something, but he couldn't remember the story. _He went to heaven, didn't he? He saw the face of God, believed, was saved right there on the spot? It couldn't have been a good deed, he was tied to a cross, what kind of good deed could he do?_

Vinnie rubbed his wrists where they had been tied in the dream. _What the hell does it mean? What am I really dreaming about?_ Vinnie pushed the covers off and got out of bed, kicked some clothes around on the floor 'til he found his sweat pants, and put them on. It was still dark, and Sonny was still asleep, thank God. Maybe he could get over this before Sonny woke up. 

He thought about taking a shower, to try and wash away the weird thoughts, but he couldn't bring himself to go into the bathroom, to walk past the mirror where that face he knew was his face would look at him. _And if I showered, Sonny would ask why I didn't shave while I was at it—_

 _And Sonny will never understand the inability to look at yourself in the mirror, he'll never not be able to meet his own eyes._ Vinnie envied that so hard, it made him sick.

So he sat down in the corner, put on the headphones, and turned on the stereo. He knew just how loud he could turn it before it woke Sonny up.

 _Frank, I wanna come home._ It was a longing made stronger by the fact that there was no home to go to. He missed Frank terribly, needed him to drag Vinnie out of his depression without making him feel guilty.

He missed Uncle Mike understanding him by ignoring his melodrama.

He missed his mother. It hurt his heart, knowing what his mother would think of the way he was living—not just with Sonny, doing whatever it was they were doing, but running this way, hiding. And though he knew it was for the best, it hurt even more, his mother knowing he was dead. It hurt. He wanted to go home. This really was purgatory; somehow, now that he knew he wasn’t really there, it felt even more like he was.

Vinnie glanced over at his bed, where Sonny was sleeping. _If I told you I can't remember who I am, I know just how you'd look at me, that expression of exasperation. If I told you that in New Jersey, Frank is dying inch by inch, and I'm dying with him— Well, you don't give a shit about Frank, and you'd tell me to get over it—and I can't even complain about that, wasn't that pretty much Frank's attitude about you? Gentler, maybe; maybe more patient, but no concern for you._

Vinnie tried not to think anymore, but his brain wouldn't stop; he tried to redirect his thoughts, but that was like trying to redirect the Mississippi.

 _Was it the Mississippi they made run the other way?_ Vinnie remembered that there was some river they did that to, but **was** it the Mississippi? Maybe he could go to the library later and look it up. It was something to do, anyway, while Sonny was off . . . doing whatever he did. Vinnie knew he should ask, even though he was sure it was legal, whatever it was. Sonny wasn't into taking risks anymore; his whole life was a risk.

What **was** the story of the thief crucified next to Jesus? Vinnie knew he should know; it felt like something he had known intimately, the way he knew his brother's voice when he said Vinnie's name, but that he had . . . not forgotten, but that had been stolen from him.

_Frank would know. Stop thinking about Frank, there's no point to it._

Vinnie looked over at Sonny, still sleeping, hoping he would stay asleep at least until the sun came up. It drove Sonny crazy when he got like this. _Yeah, like I love it so much. How do I climb out?_ And Sonny's idea of solace was to bring home some girls, or to start packing, as though they could drive away from Vinnie's depression. _I haven't heard you complain._ Well, no. But it was diversion, not corrective; it didn't change anything but the view.

He watched Sonny shift in bed, turn over, stretch one arm out. "I'm not there," Vinnie whispered. Sonny settled for a moment, then shifted again, his head on Vinnie's pillow, his arms around it. But that wasn't satisfactory; he let go of the pillow, turned over, finally woke himself up. Vinnie didn't say anything, just pushed himself further back in the corner, watching as Sonny opened his eyes, looking around, disoriented. Vinnie turned up the stereo a little more. He averted his eyes, but he could feel Sonny looking at him. _Just gimme a little more time, OK? Just a little more . . . ._

As if in answer, Sonny got up and yanked the headphones off his head, then flipped the stereo off. "Jesus, again? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Shut up," Vinnie muttered, still not looking at him. "Shut up and go back to sleep."

"Why are you sitting on the floor? We got furniture." He wasn't mad about that, he was mad because Vinnie was—because whatever was wrong with him was . . . Vinnie didn't know. Sonny was mad at him, which was bad, but it wasn't like before, when Sonny was dead. Sonny didn't want him dead, anyway. He just wanted to slug him. Vinnie thought about getting up and letting him, but before he could, Sonny yelled at him. "Will you for the love of God stop moping around? You think I don't know what you're thinking?"

The same argument from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. "Yeah," Vinnie answered, "I think you don't know what I'm thinking. I don't think you've got a clue what I'm thinking, even when I tell you. So why fucking bother to talk about it?" He grabbed the headphones back from Sonny, turned the stereo back on, and up, for good measure; he wanted the music to pound his brains out. _This's the story of our lives, an' I'm sick of it, I wanna go home. There is no home, you're dead, remember? You're dead so you live with the dead._

Sonny said something Vinnie couldn't hear, didn't want to hear, didn't care about. "I liked you better when you were dead," Vinnie muttered, turning his face to the wall. The music disappeared, leaving the unbearable echo of silence and Vinnie's thoughts, and Vinnie turned back around in a rage.

"What did you say?" Sonny yelled at him.

"I said, I liked you better when you were dead! Then you only showed up when I was asleep, and if I wanted to get rid of you, all I had to do was wake up." He reached for the volume control and Sonny cuffed him, hard, the way his father used to do, and some part of Vinnie's infuriated mind was amused by this. "Cut it out!" he yelled, slapping Sonny's hand away.

"You mope around here like you can see the end of the fucking world—"

"Get off my back! You don't have a fucking clue—"

"Oh, yeah?" Sonny challenged him. "You're the only one who lost his life, his name, everything gone?"  
__

_Do we have to play this game again? Who Lost More? Does it really matter?_ "You don't understand—"

"Poor, misunderstood Vinnie, he misses his mom, he wants to go home—"

Vinnie had heard it a hundred times now, but this time the words conjured no anger. He was too tired; he just wanted to sleep. He looked at Sonny, wishing he **could** feel that uncomplicated anger—it made the blood pound in his ears, it made all his thoughts disappear in a blood red rage—but there was nothing. He pushed past Sonny, and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

No money, no car keys—not even any shoes. Vinnie walked two blocks to the park, found himself a bench, and sat down. _Great, a park bench, you can practice for your career of being a bum,_ Sonny's voice jeered, and a wisp of anger rose and disappeared in the air. He didn't have the energy to be mad. "What's the point? Get mad, don't get mad, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, am I?" The past was his albatross, and all he could do was live with it.

The sunlight fell hot and heavy on his face, and Vinnie closed his eyes. "I wonder if there's a church around here." He hadn't been for so long, not since Frank got home from the hospital.

_How is Frank? Did they give him another agent, or a nice, safe desk? Who is Uncle Mike answering the phone as now? Does my mother have a new son now?_

He thought of Jesus, on the cross, telling His mother that John was her son now. _What did it mean? Don't be lonely? Love all men as your son? John was the disciple he loved . . . . Why John? It was only John who ever said that. Maybe John was the only one who thought so._  
  
Vinnie laughed in spite of himself. Pete had hated when he'd asked questions like that, he'd smack him in the back of the head _like Pop did, like Sonny just did,_ and call him a heathen, an infidel. "Next thing I know, you'll be calling me a Pharisee." But Pete had loved the book of apocryphal stories Vinnie'd bought for him, even if he had rolled his eyes and called it Our Lord's Adventures in Wonderland. "So, do you think I'm going to hell?"

No answer but the sounds of traffic and some birdsong.

But somehow, Vinnie didn't think he was going to hell, not because he had been so very, very good, or even so very, very repentant, but because he just didn't seem important enough, not for heaven, and not for hell. Purgatory seemed just about right for middle management like him. Leave heaven to the saints, and hell to the demons. _That's not how it works,_ Pete's voice admonished him gently, but Vinnie didn't answer. He looked up at the sun, wondering how much time had passed, if Sonny would be gone yet so he could get keys and shoes and money, all leading to a drink.

Sonny was, indeed, gone when Vinnie got back to the house. He hadn't locked the door, either, probably because he knew Vinnie would be back and would break a window if he needed to. Vinnie got in the shower, washing away the sunshine's heat and his brother's voice. He dressed, still thinking about finding a church. He wanted to go to confession. He wanted to talk to God.

A call to information got him the numbers of some churches, and finally he got the address of St. Catherine's, which wasn't close, but did have morning confession. Vinnie gathered up his clothes, dirty and clean, and tossed them together in a pillow case. Then he unplugged the stereo, put it under his arm, and walked out.

Vinnie dumped the clothes and stereo in the last pew, genuflected, and walked to the confessional. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been . . . . I don't know how long it's been, does that really matter? I need to confess." But now that he was here, he didn't know what to confess. Sleeping with Sonny, or with the girls he brought home? He wasn't sorry about that, it didn't weigh on his soul, and confession without repentance was pointless. Was it a sin to be a coward? It had to be a sin to hurt Frank, but what category did it fall under?

"What are your sins?" the priest asked with tired indulgence.

"I don't know." He tried to think. "I don't know. I just don't feel that I'm in a state of grace. I feel very far from God."

The priest seemed to think this over. "If you want to be close to God, you know where to find Him," he said finally. There was humor in his voice, kindness, and compassion. More seriously, he added, "If you want to talk, you know where to find me. Your sins are forgiven. Would you like to receive Holy Communion?"

"Yes, Father."

They both stepped out of the confessional. Father Neely looked like a veteran of Vatican II, a priest who had heard everything , forgiven most of it, felt all of it. Vinnie figured he was breaking some rules for him here, but once the host was on his tongue, he felt better. He knelt and prayed, for his father, for his brother, for himself. "Thank you, Father." He didn't mention the stereo and bag of clothes; looking the way he did, they'd only raise questions he didn't want to answer. He didn't ask about the good thief, either. He wanted to remember it himself. He wanted to do **something** himself. He was about to leave when he thought of something he did want to ask. "Did you ever know a Peter Terranova?"

Father Neely studied his face for a long moment before he shook his head. "No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Was he a parishioner?"

"No, he was a priest. It was a long shot. Thanks again, Father."

Vinnie drove back to the house again, left his keys in the ashtray next to the bed. He half-thought of leaving Sonny a note, but what would it say? _What do you say when you're dead?_

He spent the afternoon on local busses, looking at this city he didn't know or care about, trying to remember about the thief. _Why had it only been one thief that had gone to heaven, why not both of them? What was the other thief doing?_

Then, from nowhere, _St. Thomas got memorialized for doubting; maybe I should have written that in the note._

Near four o'clock, Vinnie got off the bus, found a pay phone, and called his mother's number, but no one answered, not even an answering machine. Not even cold comfort to be had.

He didn't call Frank's number; Frank would have every hang-up traced, Frank would never let him go, not without a body to bury. No one had had to tell Vinnie that Frank had looked for him, that his search had been exhaustive, that he was still looking, but Rudy had. Frank had looked for him, but Rudy had found him; that meant something, though he didn't know what. He had been gone a long time, how many months, he didn't know; they'd told him when he asked, but then the number slid out of his mind and away, until at last he got it—he didn't want to know. Rudy had got him back, and he'd given him a new life, with only one string attached: he had to give up the old life.

If he went back to the house, Sonny would yell at him, but that was all right. It was the way Sonny looked at him, the way his eyes mirrored Vinnie's own condemnation of himself. Sonny knew he was a coward, too, but Sonny was kind to him, anyway, Sonny didn't—

Life with Sonny was fine, as long as he could keep the gloom at bay. Vinnie just didn't know how to do that.

He had hoped that God's grace would be enough, but he walked down the street until he found a bar, its cool, dark, afternoon quiet much like that of St. Catherine's. One thing about churches and bars—it didn't matter what city you were in, they all looked pretty much the same. He'd have a beer, or two, or ten; he wanted to get as drunk as he could and still be able to stand up—and standing up really wasn't that much of a priority. He'd drink and wait for the click that would shut off the pain, the one that let him breathe without wanting to scream, the one that let him forget his name and remember who he was. Once the pain was gone, he could figure out what to do next.

His first beer came, and halfway through it so did the name of the good thief. "St. Dismis. The name of the good thief was St. Dismis, the name of my brother's church. How the hell could I have forgotten that?" The bartender was looking at him, but he wasn't doing anything but talking to himself, and how many guys had ever been thrown out of a bar just for that?

Maybe it meant something, that he kept dreaming about St. Dismis, but couldn't remember his name. Maybe he was trying to forget his past. Maybe it meant nothing more than that his brains were scrambled.

There was a pay phone on the wall in the back of the bar, and after his third beer, Vinnie went over and dialed his mother's number again. Again, there was no answer, but that was a good thing, wasn't it? It wasn't as though he had anything to say, and he was afraid of what she'd say to him. He was looking for the one thing he knew he didn't deserve: someone to tell him it was all right.

But with a couple more beers in him, he wouldn't need comfort, and the beer was right there behind the bar.

Staying with Sonny was a choice, even if it was the coward's choice. He simply couldn't pin a target to his forehead and wait for them to come after him again to take him back to that cell, not for Frank, not for anyone. Only now Frank, alive, haunted him the way Sonny, dead, had for so many years. Was that irony, or what?


End file.
